Five minutes later I was angry. I didn’t wholly understand why. My stomach was full. I never had to worry about food. My mom used to tell me this was one thing I never had to worry about. I thought about those commercials. The ones with the starving kids from Africa. Why was I so selfish? Food controlled me.
Images, subliminal messages, advertisements: all telling me that I’m not good enough. But I worked out really hard today. So I slipped up a little bit with the chicken fingers, but I didn’t eat breakfast. 250 calories less than I would have eaten. Jennifer Aniston looks really good on the cover of “People.” “Jennifer’s tips to staying in Hollywood shape.” Maybe I should buy that. Maybe I should be that.
A constant flux of imagery abounds. The perpetual promotion of perfection pervades the subconscious. Society shoves it down our throats, and we comply. A clean slate is nonexistent. We are born raw, broken, and sore from penetration. We are addicted to the abuse. Do we want another option? We rely on images. Society has become efficient at promoting the image of perfect.
Want the perfect body? Want to glow? Want to attract the perfect man? This is what sells. The media turns us into whores. Desperate, insatiable whore machines. Images are mechanically spit out left and right, low and high. We are moaning. We are hungry. We are insatiable. We crave, yearn, and covet the idea of perfect.
They look so good in the magazines! Pictures are real. They show real things. All of these women are real. I know if I work hard enough, I can look like them. Angelina looks good on this cover. Her lips are so big. Why don’t I have lips like that? Her eyes are daunting. She looks like she knows something. Her stare is primeval. She is gazing at me. She is calling to me. She looks a little hungry though. Her hunger intrigues me, it beckons me to look closer, to desire.
I am drenched. I am saturated with fluid. The stench of perfection permeates the room. 25 more minutes to go. 300 more calories to burn. Think about how nice your ass will look after this. All the guys will want you. Everyone will want your ass. 20 more minutes, 250 more calories to burn. I am dripping. I am melting. I am evaporating. “Glamour” calls this the “J-Lo body sculpt.” I remember her music video. The one where she danced half naked on the beach. She looked sadistic. As if she ruled the world.
I can’t get this image out of my head. THE image. The image I’m always striving, always pushing, always reaching for. I feel sick. My stomach is growling. My insides are churning. I am beginning to like the feeling of emptiness. I am beginning to become addicted to the sounds of hunger. I am starting to become infatuated with my body’s depletion. My mom said I would never have to worry about being hungry. She told me so over and over again. But I am hungry. Hungry for an image.
I went to the movies today. The popcorn smelled like hell. I thought I saw little devils playing on top of the kernels. Maybe I’m just hallucinating. I only ate an orange for lunch. The previews flashed and throbbed into the dark room. Projections were beaming, revealing shiny images of tall, skinny women. Sure she might be a bounty hunter who weighs 100 pounds, but who cares? She glides through the air, kicks, jumps, kills. She can do anything. Her body bends, twists, contorts. She does not waste time. Nothing halts her ambitions. I can see her rib cage. I can see her ambition. She is perfect.
I exited the movie theater, the artificially darkened box of hope. Images resonated in me. Shiny hair, shiny eyes, shiny legs, shiny lives. Media presents women to the audience like adults give candy to children on Halloween. They never tell you to be careful of that razor in the lollipop. Reality and fantasy become inseparable. Although I know these images are not reality, I cannot ignore them. I cannot simply push them into the back of my mind. I am starting to doubt my ability to decipher between the two. The line is so blurred, there is no definition. These images, these women, they all look so beautiful, so happy.
I know what is real, what is artificial. I am not crazy, I am just a perfectionist. I am just doing what is best for me. I know I can be the best, the most beautiful. These images are real, they are photographs of real women. Real women who I can aspire too. If they can be perfect, so can I.
My head starts to pound after the movie. I’m hungry again. I know if I can hold off for another hour I will be happy with myself. I am at war with my body. I am not going to lose. I will fight until the death.
Numbness starts to kick in. My body is empty, void of any nutrients. Void of anything that will prevent my success. I have nothing. Nothing but images. Images of the American dream. Images of happiness. Images of a beautiful me. These images will help me. They aid in my success. They show me what I want to be. What I can be. What I should be.
Women lying down, women standing up, women cooking, women dancing, women smiling; they are all perfect beings. I am not crazy. They are real. The women in the magazines are real. The women on the billboards are real. I can see a Coca-Cola add. The woman’s cherry red lips glisten. Her perfectly toned, outstretched arm reaches for the drink. She looks out at the viewer, encouraging the voyeuristic glances. “Don’t I look delightful?” “Don’t you want to be me?”
I want to look like you. I would do anything to look like you. The oversaturation of your image is becoming pleasant. Your submissive stance is becoming almost natural to me now. Your ruby red lips are succulent. Your image is that of perfection. Society loves you. I love you.
It begins to rain while I am walking home. I let the rain soak into my skin. I want to feel something. I want to be rewarded for all of my hard work. I am hungry, but I ignore my stomach. I am soaked from the downpour. Drenched, yet desensitized. Images persistently pestering my thoughts. I want it to be quiet. I am doing all I can to be perfect. Just a minute of silence would be nice. But silence is not allowed. Contemplation would make me eat. Thinking requires eating. I can’t let myself eat.
I turn on the television and see her again. It is the same woman from the billboard. I idolize her, worship her. Her manicured nails scratch against my television set. My vision is becoming blurred. Only 3 more hours until I finish my next cleanse. Her image is becoming blurred. I do not want to lose her. She is all that I have.
I look in the mirror. All I can see is a faint resemblance of the woman I used to be. I keep telling myself that I am almost there. I can taste success. I won’t be in pain anymore. These images feed me. I have the fuel to continue.
My mom told me I never had to worry about being hungry. I am famished. I am ravenous. She was wrong.
I am starving for an image.
I am dying for an image.